


The Day the Morty Stood Still

by NellyNee



Category: Pocket Mortys, Rick and Morty
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Morticia doesn't know what she wants, Rick is a dick, Space is scary yo, Tags will be added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NellyNee/pseuds/NellyNee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Rick knows that Morty's are dumb, interchangeable things that fallow around like a little puppy, waiting for scraps and earubs and cowering when you swat them with a newspaper. A Rick's best friend. But a Dog without a master goes feral, and rouge Morty's get smart.</p><p>These are the notable encounters of a Rickless Morty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rick X-C-982: Brooch

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much a word prompt series inspired by Pocket Mortys, so if you've got any particular requests feel free to drop them at me at my tumblr at http://nellynee.tumblr.com/ you never know what might inspire me. Can't guarantee I will use them but the universe is a huge place. 
> 
> Been sitting on this for a while so I figured why the hell not. Pretty tame to start, but keep an eye on the tags, this might get FU-REAK-Y

Rick X-C-982 spends his dear sweet time peering into the florescent green gem centered in the gaudy brooch in hand. The setting is awful even if it's made with enough gold to fetch him a few high priced hookers and everything he needs to make his time a fun one on earth (or a lot of low priced one's, he's not picky other than 'clean'). The bright little sparkly bits around it are nothing more than painted glass. But after the third test Rick knows for sure he's got a quarter sized hunk of Florborian Mitzle on his hands. Rick can think of at least ten different productive things he could do with the damn thing and a hundred ways to make money off it if he wanted. Resisting the urge to pocket it and run, the shop runner casually tosses the whole mess back across the table.

 

“I'll give y - you 5,200 schmeckles for it.”

 

The Morty in front of him honest to god sputters, like it's a personal fucking offense before tugging the heavy piece a jewelry a little closer.

 

“I – I can't take schmeckles man. Rick says the exchange rates are ridi-diculous. W-we're leaving the citadel, w-we don't want schmeckles.”

 

“And I -I don't work out of this pocket space M-Morty. I – I don't have anything other than a Citadel credit machine. Your Rick wants something else Morty, he'll come and get it.”

 

The Morty flinches hard, but Rick is impressed that he holds his ground and puffs his chest a bit, gathering courage. But this kid is filthy and thin and keeps scratching the too long greasy hair poking out from where it's tucked under a baseball cap. Probably from some bad haircut dimension. And his Rick is nowhere in sight, which means he's got better things to do than move Florborian Mitzle. This Morty is on the move with his Rick and this Mitzle is probably _hot_ as fuck and X-C-982 isn't going to take the brunt of his anger when they move again.

 

“You said y-you could pay in Cranbos. 60 Cranbos like you promised or we – we take it somewhere else.

 

Kid hadn't flinched at the almost thirding of the price Rick had given him in schmeckles earlier, just the denomination. He's got no idea what he's got or how much money they're actually talking and it's almost too easy. Picking up the tall bottle he's got hidden behind the register, the Rick behind the counter takes a long burning draw from it to hide his smirk before wiping the rest of his mirth off his face with the corner of his bright, tacky button up.

 

“Look, Kid, Morty.” He pause as the fumes burn back up. “Morty. You won't find a better deal around here. This is what I _do._ I -I'll even give you the exchange rate difference. 6000 schmeckles and y-you can go exchange your Cranbos even steven.”

 

He can't, the price cut is ridiculous but he doesn't know the difference. His Rick should know better anyways.

 

Apparently he does know better, because the Morty leans out just a little bit of the little alcove the Rick has built up around his shop, to keep out the looky-lous. Glances once or twice quick to not be caught before his gaze catches sneaky like somewhere in the crowd. Rick doesn't fallow his lead, leans out real far to try and catch the eye of this Morty's Rick but doesn't see anything. The Morty relaxes a bit though,so he must have seen something. Instead of giving him the brooch at a steal the Morty picks it and slips it back into the little pouch hooked to his belt and meets Rick's eyes. Rick is forced to make a quick reassessment of the situation. Shit.

 

“Sorry Rick, no sale.”

 

Shit shit shiiiiit. This isn't a quick dump off this is Baby's First Errand. X-C-982 is on his last leg living out of the Citadel, the last thing he needs is some pissed off Rick with a hair up his ass picking a fight over stolen goods in the middle of his shop and shit. He needs this reputation of keep other Rick's buying from him. Fuck. It's tempting to let the kid just leave but there's enough Florborian Mitzle there that Rick could spend all his time doing nothing but sticking his hand down his pants licking the thing and the Cranbos would still be worth it.

 

“Ok, ok you little fuck, 57 Cranbos” And now he takes a big long swig in mourning of his wallet as he slides out of a steal right up into lowball haggle territory. “Just have to sit for me to e-e- get the things ok?” He waits just long enough that he catches the bare beginnings of a nod before flipping the closed sign and heading to the back. Fuck exchanges, he doesn't have the time for lines, his personal stash will do. What kind of fucking asshat works in Cranbos anyways?

 

 

 

 


	2. Original Rick - Lead

Grandpa Rick was the first person to shorten the name to Morty. 

Morty had answered the door that day, and Rick, looking tall and scruffy and a little like a hobo had taken one look and sneered.

“Well fuck me.”

And with that he'd taken a long draw from his soon to be infamous flask, and shouldered his way into the house and into their life and hadn't left.

Mom picked up the nickname next, when Morty had shown indifference and Rick had insisted. One of the many, frequent small attempts she made with her father, one of the small concessions that said 'it's ok.' Summer used it ironically at school once, calling Morty a suck up, and then the name wouldn't drop.

Dad never did use it on his own, until Morty asked, begged a little even on several occasions. One of his little battles that he didn't know how to pick.

Bit by bit life dropped the old and slipped Rick right into the new until it seemed that there had always been a Morty all along.

But he was the first. He'd hung around the house that first day, Morty freaking out and Summer whispering about the creepy old guy in their kitchen over the phone until their parents had shown up in that weird, perfect synchronized way parents sometimes did. Mom, who spent most of her time being so strong, had fallen into his shoulders with a sob and a wail of “daddy” so loud it could be heard from upstairs. Jerry had met his infamous missing father-in-law for the first time, and never recovered.

Hours later of whispers and closed doors and the children had been let into the kitchen for dinner, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping to the best of their abilities and puzzling over the fully homecooked meal that had been, up until this point, a rarity with their busy mother.

“This is our oldest, Summer.” Mom had put a hand on Summer's shoulder in emphasis, but interest had waned at this point with Summer. They had a Grandpa and he was wrinkly and old and soft in that “doilys on the couch and sweaters in early fall” kind of way. Grandparent's weren’t exciting, they smelled funny and were awkward and didn't understand her at all. She granted him the barest wiggle of her fingers before they continued their dance across her phone screen.

“And this is your other granddaughter, Morticia, say hello to your Grandpa Rick Tish.”

Tish. Up until now she'd always been Tish. 

Grandpa Rick had looked her over. The long hair over her shoulders, the painted nails that twisted through it. It settled on her face and for a moment she was more than nervous. He was pulling her apart from under her skin. With just a look she felt like a bug spread out on a board, all the bright outside pulled away until his eyes could poke at the soft bits and figure her out. Her hair stood on end and the air in her throat was suddenly thick.

And then he let this little snort out his nose and the spell was broken. He shook out his limbs as he stood, leaving his plate behind and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her up even though she wasn't done with her food.

“Come on Morty. Y-you're going to help Grandpa move into his new room.”

And just like that, she'd been snared.

And now here Morty is, in some backwater restaurant on some backwater planet, eating something that looks like yellow rice but screams when she chews. The Federation stamps next to the alien name says it's safe for carbon based life forms, at least if she's reading it right, so it shouldn't poison her too bad. She's got Cranbos in her pocket. Real physical tender that no one can trace. Precious sparkly metal she can cut apart if she ends up somewhere a little less refined.

She's here, and he's not, and it's like the universe's stupidest cliché that she's sitting here with screams in her mouth, wondering why she's not dead, thinking the words “what would Rick do?”. She can't go home anymore, but even if she could, would she? Would she be able to handle that stifling life of normality, where her worst worries are paying the mortgage and budgeting for that extra bag of oranges?

What would Rick do?

She looks at the glowing light on the portal gun she's got propped on the table and feels like crying into her rice. The Universe is massive, and there are a million versions of it on her fingertips. All the multiverses with a million ways to kill her and no one to show her the way.

Does it matter? Rick wouldn't be in her situation because he's Rick. He's seen and done a little bit of everything to the point that nothing surprises him anymore. He's smart enough to know what he needs to do to get shit done. But it's not like she's got any shit to do. She's a lone Morty and right now she couldn't feel smaller.

But that's just it, isn’t it? It doesn't really matter what she does. 

(What would Rick do? She already knows the answer, and that's what's terrifying.

Anything he damn well wants.)


	3. Guard Ricks - Normal

For all the opportunity laid before her, her mind draws a blank. 

She knows what she wants. She wants to go home. Her home, her real home, where she grew up with her real family. She wants to wake up tomorrow in her old bed with the little dip in the middle where the springs crunch. She wants to wake up, and wear the same hand me down clothes and eat the same eggs and bacon and toast that her mother has made since Rick had showed back up, every morning and then some. She even wants to go to her shitty school. She craves it, like the world's richest comfort food she craves the mundane again. 

It would have been so easy if she was a normal Morty. Most portal guns are essentially the same, and if they aren't they get pretty close soon after a Rick finds his way to the counsel, as they inevitably do. The only difference she's found so far in the one she's lifted has been in the chrome finish. Point and shoot, and chances are she'd find a universe that could take in a Morty where they'd lost one. But even if the gun had an infinite charge her short time in the Citadel's custody had taught her something. That the Rick's had a hard time placing her in a another universe, and if they had a hard time finding one to match....

She wants Rick. It's stupid. He was abrasive and abusive and ate up her free time until her life became less her own and more just something hanging on the fringes of his. And in the end all she feels is abandoned.

So she sits outside the little restaurant she's found herself at. Leaning against the wall, she slowly rotates the dial, pops it up and down, up and down, space and dimension, and tells herself she's not committing suicide.

One shot, one charge, one chance to keep going.

Click, click, click. 

She plays with it until she's hungry again. Until the little green light in it's protective case on top starts to fade. Until her bladder screams and she's forced to decide.

When she leaves the restroom (or what she hopes is the restroom. There are stalls with drains in the floor, and the whole room has the rotten sweet stink of organic matter and burn of ammonia and acids) they are waiting outside the restaurant for her. They see her before she sees them, and she's already out the door again, heading for her little space of wall by the time she does. Tall figures in their starched uniforms, imposing and mostly sober, coming toward her in unison with matching expressions. For just a second she sees them as her Rick had, too scared of their own actions to face the consequences, holed up in the Citadel, refusing to go out and live, and less Rick for their cooperation. She hates them.

But even as her finger twitches to the trigger, even as she tries to convince herself her luck will hold, she misses him. And they are more Rick than him by virtue of living, just as the Morty's fallowing the rear are more Morty than her.

Her initial adrenaline is gone. Gone is the triumph of fooling Ricks, gone is the freedom and exhilaration. She's tired and she wants to go to bed.

Her hand slackens when they take the portal gun from her, and she goes through the portal savoring the heavy hand on her shoulder.


End file.
